


Is Forever Enough

by buhnebeest



Series: Myrthe Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chronic Pain, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: “I have a gift for you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> Title from 'Lullaby' by the Dixie Chicks.

“I have a gift for you.”

Cullen looked up to find Myrthe closing the door behind her, a small package cradled to her chest. He felt the smile she gave him with his whole body and helplessly returned it, watching as she darted over and perched on his desk. She chose the exact same spot as the last three times, all of which had ended as the first; carefully sorted paperwork scattered all over the floor and his inkwell dripping its contents all over them, but also Myrthe wantonly sighing his name when he bore over her, which honestly trumped all else.

“A gift?” Cullen asked, laying his hand high on her thigh; letting his fingertips ride the inseam of her breeches.

Myrthe dimpled prettily, blushing, but she covered her hand over his to halt his ministrations, squeezing his fingers. With the other she put the package in front of him; a small vial with a bow tied to the lid.

“ _Ara tel’thenaras_ ,” she said, the elvhen words dancing off her tongue. “It translates roughly to ‘Dreamless Sleep’.”

Cullen looked up at her, heart thudding. “…What?”

“It’s a recipe my Keeper taught me,” Myrthe explained. “The draught guards against night terrors. It is used to aid those plagued by insomnia. Or shot nerves,” she added gently, taking his slackened hand and bringing it to her mouth; pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Cullen stared down at the vial. It looked laughably unassuming, just bottled water, though upon closer inspection it seemed to shimmer faintly, as though laced with a drop of mother-of-pearl.

“How?” he rasped, eyes burning.

“Felanderis root.” Myrthe smiled. “It is not addictive, ma’arlath. It is meant to soothe, like a balm or a poultice for the mind; it will not claim you like the lyrium would.”

“I…” Cullen knew not what to say. He could hardly begin to hope such a thing could work, that such a thing could even exist. Had anyone else told him of it he would likely have dismissed it as snake oil and moved on. But this was Myrthe, and he had never known her to be fanciful.

“Do you want to try it?” she asked softly. “You don’t have to, if it troubles you. But… I thought it might help.”

*******

She took him to her quarters, because it ‘wouldn’t do for his rest to be interrupted’. Myrthe directed him to take off his armor while she closed the curtains against the bright winter light, until the room was suffused in just the warm glow of the hearth.

Cullen laid his folded shift on the wardrobe, feeling suddenly awkward for being the only one undressing, for the specific purpose of sleeping in her bed without first making love – for all that he loved her, their affair was still new, and their intimacy all the more so. He didn’t even know if she would stay with him. It was the middle of the day. He had work to do, they both did—

“Sit,” Myrthe said, herding him to the bed. She was oddly agitated – excited, he thought – and tutted over his boots and breeches. She knelt to relieve him of them, quick and businesslike, apparently uncaring of the implied eroticism of the picture she made. Cullen swallowed and let himself be guided under the covers, heart racing with nerves.

“Drink this in full,” she said quietly, handing him a goblet. The sweet scent of cherries filled his nose; she’d dosed her wine with the drought.

Cullen looked up at her. “Myrthe—”

“It will work,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “I promise.”

Cullen blew out a breath and brought the goblet to his lips. He drank in full.

“Sleep well, ma’arlath,” Myrthe whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple; guiding his slow descent down to the mattress.

Cullen didn’t answer. He was gone by the time his ear met the pillow.

*******

He woke in increments, mottling his way through cotton fog back to consciousness. His senses seemed to come back to him one by one: a fresh fire crackling somewhere, a soft voice crooning sweetly above him, a pretty lullaby he didn’t know or understand the words to; the smell of cherries and fresh hay and cloves. The delicate cotton of a nightgown under his cheek; fingers stroking through his hair like his mother used to, back when he was a child and there were monsters under the bed.

He was ravenous and his bladder was full, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the luxury of calm. His perpetual migraine was gone and so was the ache in his bones, the strain in his muscles; even his skin felt looser, softer, like it no longer had to stretch to make room for the burning lack of lyrium in his veins.

Cullen pressed his face into Myrthe’s belly, so grateful to her – _for_ her – he could barely breathe.

Myrthe made a soft noise, followed by the rustle of parchment as she put something away, and then she was curling over him, kissing the crown of his head.

“Cullen,” she murmured. “Are you well?”

_‘Well’_ , she said, as though that were even a remotely adequate word for the sheer absence of pain in his body, the serenity of morning he had not experienced in eleven years of broken sleep _._ Maker’s breath, how could he ever repay her for this?

How could he ever show her the depth of his gratitude?

It was such an impossible predicament that he started laughing, and then suddenly he couldn’t stop, snorting childish giggles against Myrthe’s belly, eyes prickling with confused tears. He felt full, fit to burst with a whirlpool of feelings, none of which he could name.

“My head doesn’t hurt,” he whispered finally, voice shaking. “Nothing _hurts_.”

Myrthe hummed gently and held him, cradling him close.

“I’m glad, ma’arlath. I’m so glad.”


End file.
